Bad Dreams?
by arwenae
Summary: John's nightmares have been getting worse...


**I'm sleep deprived, so some of this may lack something, but if I don't post it now, I might never get to it. I'm so sorry about the Doctor's voice- somehow I just couldn't get him to go right. Still, here it is, see what you think. Concrit always welcome.**

* * *

The Nightmares were getting worse. There was no denying it now. Hadn't been for a while, actually, but John was stubborn like that, always preferring to blame a bad night on a dodgy Chinese takeaway or a long case than admit he had a real problem. But he hadn't had nightmares like this even in his first weeks back in London.

Tonight was going to be a bad one; he could feel it building even as he started to drift off. He knew he should move. He should just get up and get out of it, and yet- and yet…

"C'mon, John! One of these days we'll leave without you, you dreamy bugger!"

"And one of these days it'll rain sheep in Kabul." John grinned as he swung himself up onto the transport, adjusting his pack as he plonked himself onto the low seat opposite Peterson. "We've got plenty of time, and you know it."

"That time cushion's in case a bridge is out or something, not so you can get an extra five minutes on the bog! What're you reading in there, War and Peace?"

"Not my fault if I like a bit of privacy, Wozzer. And don't think I haven't seen your copy of Anna Karenina floating around. Not literally," he added hastily, as the sniggering rose around him.

This was good. Not much conversation on the road, apart from the cheers that went up every time the truck jerked over a particularly large pothole, but it was a comfortable silence. Whatever waited for them when they stopped, they would face it together, as they always had.

The journey settled into a companionable blur, so that it seemed no time at all before the truck juddered to a halt and they were moving out. John gripped the crossbar, swinging himself lightly to the ground.

And froze.

This wasn't Afghanistan.

This was a different battlefield altogether. Dark clouds rolled across this sky, and the ground was bleak and grey. Purple fire ripped through the air, seeming to pass within feet of their group.

"Down!"

John didn't recognise the voice, but a smart man does not ignore a command like that on a battlefield. He hit the ground, heart pounding in his chest, as the world exploded into whiteness for a few long seconds.

Then there was a hand on his shoulder, dragging him to his feet, pushing him forwards. Commands "Doctor, go with the 7th. They'll need you beyond the rise." He obeyed without question, attaching himself to a small group of men in grey combat gear who acknowledged him with nods.

Now he was charging across rough grey terrain. Up, down, keep moving, even stride. Pothole, swerve, regain speed, breathe. This never changed. War was war.

The world exploded. Heat. Blindness. And then hands, too many of them, dragging him forwards, voices shouting his name. John's vision cleared to reveal the patient that he was being pushed towards- first of many, by the looks of things- there was shrapnel and blood everywhere. An awful lot of that blood was pouring from his charge's abdomen.

So much blood, too much, and where was his backup? Where was the kit? He plunged his hands into the mess, desperate to do something, anything, just to stop the blood, and his hands were going , deeper, too deep, there was so much blood, so much, it was up to his shoulders, his face, his eyes, he was falling, drowning…

Noise, darkness. He couldn't move his legs. Oh crud, something was holding his legs, he could feel it sliding against his ankles. Were those scales? He wanted to know, but he couldn't see anything, and he was far, far too scared to essay a touch. He could feel the fear like a palpable mass inside his chest, constricting his lungs until he wasn't even sure he was breathing anymore.

Teeth closed on his hand.

John froze. It felt as though his whole self had been petrified. He could feel the teeth slowly increasing their pressure, tiny points pressing deeper and deeper, but he couldn't force himself to move. Why? He was a soldier; he should be able to push past fear, get the job done. Anger and frustration bubbled through him, yet his wrist remained stubbornly still, and the teeth, oh smeg, the teeth-

* * *

"John? John!"

He woke to a jumbled world of light and noise. He must have fallen out of bed- the duvet was twisted around him, flaring out at odd angles. John's post-nightmare confusion wasn't helped by the fact that Sherlock Holmes was shaking him by the shoulder, seemingly unaware that he was also kneeling on John's hand. John shoved him roughly off with the other hand and shook himself up onto one elbow, blinking blearily at his flatmate.

"Are you alright?" John hadn't seen Sherlock this dishevelled for some time. His hair looked, well, slept-on, as though there was more of it on one side of his head than the other.

"Mm? yeah… yeah. Bad dream. Are you?" This close, John could feel that his flatmate's heartbeat was at least as fast as his own. He couldn't have caused that, surely?

"Yes." Sherlock jerked his hand away from John's, drew back defensively. "Yes, of course. Obviously."

"Did I wake you up?"

Sherlock snorted. "Obviously."

"Sorry."

"If you're going to be sorry about bad dreams, find a way not to have them. If it's out of your control, let it drop."

"Mmn." John scrubbed at his eyes with the back of one hand, still too sleepy for the effort of keeping up a conversation with Sherlock. He was spared Sherlock's comments on the subject, however, by a scuffling noise from the rooms below, swiftly followed by their landlady's voice from the bottom of the staircase to John's room.

"Sherlock? Are you up there, dear?"

Sherlock shot a glance at John, then slid effortlessly to his feet and was at the door in a single, cat-like motion. John sank his head into his hands. This was not going to help his efforts to convince Mrs Hudson that he and Sherlock had no interest whatsoever in a "couples lunch" with Mrs Turner's lodgers.

Sherlock left the room and leaned out over the stairs to their living-room. "What is it, Mrs Hudson?"

"I'm so sorry to interrupt, love, but there's a man here who says it can't wait."

"Who is he?"

"I'm sure I don't know. He says he's from the police, but there's something not right about him, if you ask me."

Sherlock hesitated, glancing back at John, still sitting in a cloud of bed linen and embarrassment. John waved him on and he was gone, taking the stairs two at a time, by the sound of it. John followed a little less energetically, pulling his dressing gown on as he staggered sleepily from the room. He heard Mrs Hudson going back to bed, casting remarks behind her to the effect of it not being in a landlady's duties to answer the door at ungodly hours such as this.

When he reached the bottom of the stairs, John waited, mostly concealed by the high bannisters. He didn't want to intrude, and was in no state to see visitors in any case. Waiting seemed a good idea, though- Sherlock had been known to suddenly decide John was necessary to an interview and drag him bodily out of bed if that proved the fastest way to fetch him. So John waited, listening.

"You're not with the Met. I'd know."

"No. No, not them. Special investigations, that's me."

"No you're not."

"Course I am. Here, id. All present and correct."

Sherlock's *everyone but me is a fool* sigh was audible even to John. He smiled. Life was back to normal already.

"The-"

without even seeing, John could tell Sherlock would be frowning. That was his 'I've just been told/shown something ridiculous' voice.

"The… dream police?"

John's head shot up involuntarily. He was suddenly filled with terror of the stranger, though he didn't know why that should be. He tried to back away, but walked straight into the step behind him and slid down onto his bum.

Immediately, Sherlock's head appeared around the corner. He frowned, but seemed as though he would have returned to his conversation had the stranger not taken the opportunity to bound past him into the flat.

He was tall and gangly, and for a moment it seemed to John that this could be Sherlock's counterpart in a strange mirror universe- long, billowing coat, physics-defying hair, eyes darting all over the place, although in the stranger's case with curious enthusiasm rather than critical disinterest- and then the fear was back again, choking even semi-rational thought.

The stranger was talking, gabbling as he stuffed a card-wallet into his breast pocket.

"Sorry about that, psychic paper. Not the most reliable of tools if you're not concentrating properly. Ooh, hello."

He bounced over to crouch in front of John, who shrank back against the staircase. Sherlock's hand was on the stranger's shoulder in an instant, pulling him back.

"What did you do?"

"Sorry, what?"

"He's terrified. What did you do to him?"

The stranger looked blank for a moment longer, then looked down at John with sudden comprehension.

"Ah. right. Gotcha. That's not your fear, you know. Your brain's being doused in the parasite's fear chemicals. It knows I'm coming for it, and it doesn't want to let go."

"You're talking nonsense." The man winced as Sherlock's grip on him tightened. "What. Did. You. Do?"

"Oww!" The man shot Sherlock a hurt look. "I didn't do anything. There's an alien parasite hiding in his head, nothing to do with me." Taking advantage of Sherlock's temporary confusion, he turned to address John again, grinning at him in a way that was probably intended to be reassuring.

"I'm the Doctor, by the way, nice to meet you. I expect you're a soldier?"

John nodded, dumbly. Sherlock started to protest again, but seemed to have met his match in the motormouth stakes. This "Doctor" prattled on, leaving no gaps for the others to interrupt.

"Thought so. Pirestines tend to search out professions like that. They've been at war so long now they're running short of experts to teach the new recruits. No problem, though, they just skip to a handy planet, absorb some military techniques and take the information back to big momma Pirestine, wherever she's lurking these days. Cause a few nasty dreams while they're about it, though. They want to run some sort of simulation, but they don't really know how. Eliminated most of the intelligence from their gene pool by making their best and brightest into field commanders. Poor genetic strategy 101, really. So they lose control of the scenario and cause all sorts of havoc. Can't have that."

As he spoke, the Doctor drew a strange metal rod from his coat, silvery, with a blue tip of some other material. He twirled it a little, sliding some controls about.

"Now- actually, what's your name, soldierboy?"

"Guh-" Oh, this was just ridiculous. John fought against the fear, held the word ready and flung it through his lips like a bullet.

"John!"

It was more of an effort than he'd expected, and he gasped involuntarily, his body still taut and twitching with barely restrained terror. The Doctor was giving him the same look he got from Sherlock sometimes, when the detective thought he'd done something more than usually clever. On this stranger's face, it was just irritating.

"Good. Now, John, like I said, I had nothing to do with what's been done to you-" The Doctor held up his device with a satisfied air. It buzzed, the blue tip flickering with light. Something within John was screaming at him, to move, to run, while what remained of his conscious mind fought the impulse, desperately trying to be rational.

"But I am going to sort it out."

Then he pushed the rod into John's ear.

Noise. Pain. One must have come first, but John wasn't sure anymore. It felt as though his head was exploding and melting at the same time, accompanied by the visual equivalent of dubstep.

John was pretty sure he was screaming. Sherlock was shouting something, his voice a low rumble just audible under the cacophony of high notes jostling for the attention of his audio receptors. The shrieking whine filled the world, driving John down, down into the airless dark…

* * *

John came to himself with a jolt, gasping for air. He had sunk to his knees at some point, and he could feel sweat dripping off him. His ears were still buzzing, but the terrible noise had stopped, and his head felt oddly… clean. It seemed an odd adjective to use, but it was the only one that really fit.

There was a pair of shoes in front of him. John looked up.

Sherlock had stopped shouting, and was staring at something down and to John's left, his jaw slightly slack. John followed his gaze. There was a long, long pause. The greenish-grey _thing_ steamed slightly. John felt he should say something to end the silence, but couldn't find anything better to say than;

"Right."

There was another, even longer silence. This one was broken by the reappearance of the strange man in the suit from the flat kitchen. He was carrying three steaming cups, somehow managing not to spill the contents of any of them despite crossing the room like an overexcited gazelle.

"Tea!" he announced, thrusting a cup into each of their hands as John wobbled to his feet. "Lovely stuff. Seriously though," he gave John a concerned look; "good for the synapses. Works wonders after a shaking up like that, trust me."

The other two seemed to be waiting for John to react, so he gingerly sipped at the tea. To his surprise, the stranger could make a pretty good cuppa. He swallowed.

"Thanks."

"No problem. Nine hundred years, eventually you work out how long to leave the bag in."

"Um…"

"Oh, don't worry about it. I'm not staying, anyway. Be out of your life in no time, take the weirdness with me."

"Not all of it." John muttered, smiling into his cup. Compared to some evenings with Sherlock, this actually hadn't been all that bad. Less blood, at any rate.

"Well, this part, anyway." The Doctor knelt down beside the slug-thing, whipping a bag from the recesses of his jacket. "Mustn't leave this lying around. You lot won't discover them for about four hundred and sixty years. Best not to mess with that, I think."

Sherlock, the scientist in him visibly twitching, probably would have moved in, but John laid a restraining hand on his arm. Sherlock looked askance at his friend and reluctantly obeyed John's small "not now" headshake. Not wanting to be too cruel to his flatmate, John refrained from pointing out the small amount of slime that the Doctor missed as he gave the floor a brisk wipe. After all, if Lestrade didn't push a case their way soon, it would be good to have something to occupy Sherlock that would be less distressing than the blood-balloon experiment. Mrs Hudson had had hysterics.

The Doctor rocked back on his heels and ran his free hand through his hair.

"Well, that seems to be everything. Lovely."

He got to his feet, slipped the bag into some recess of his voluminous coat and held out his hand towards Sherlock, who stared at it. Undeterred, he leaned forwards to grasp Sherlock's hand anyway and gave it a brisk pump, smiling like a child knee-deep in sweets.

"I'll be off, now. Lovely meeting you, sorry for the trouble, have an excellent night."

Sherlock barely had time to open his mouth, before the Doctor had moved on to John, still brighter than any man had the right to be at this time of night.

"Good to meet you, John. Don't worry, these chaps won't be bothering your planet again for a few centuries, I've seen to that. Wouldn't ask how, sleeping dogs best buried and all that. Goodnight then. Allons-y!"

He took one step back, ripped off a perfect salute and was out of the door before Sherlock could recover the power of speech. The two flatmates stared at each other dumbly for a moment, and Sherlock shook his head, seemingly resigned to bafflement in this case. The click of the front door shutting sounded too loud in the silence. Sherlock broke it.

"Bolt the door, John. Mrs Hudson will have our heads otherwise."

Business as usual, thought John with a small smile, as he traipsed down the stairs to fasten the bolt and chain on the street door. Coming back into the living room, though, he suddenly felt tremendously weary, as he did sometimes when the adrenalin of an excursion with Sherlock had faded. He just wanted to sweep the debris of the night aside and start again. Slowly.

"What time is it?"

"3:39 am." John didn't even bother asking how he knew.

"Best get back to bed then, I suppose. Try and salvage what's left of the night."

"Yes. After all, you do have to work today."

"Yes."

There was a lengthy pause. John turned his head to face the stairs, but made no move to climb them. He felt Sherlock's hand settle gently on his shoulder, and tensed despite himself.

"Want me to sit with you?"

John gently released a breath he hadn't realised he had been holding, and allowed himself to lean into Sherlock's grip a little. The hand on his shoulder felt… warm. Safe. And… heaven knew he had never expected to associate this phrase with Sherlock Holmes… it felt normal. A lifeline to sanity after a very bad dream.

"Please."


End file.
